The old track to the ridge line
begins where two rivers meet,
aquamarine water pulsing with oxygen,
original path cut along the lines of power
up the steep mountain from tree to ancient tree,
roots forming a network from sun to inner Earth,
an energetic grid alight and flowing
across the long switchbacks to the solitary lookout
where centuries old doug fir digs its roots
into the spine of dark basalt,
down into the reservoir, up into the winter sun,
the sound of the river still echoing
in this place of origin alive with peace,
waiting with my secret name.